Switch
by Rargamonster
Summary: It's funny how things change, and how they stay the same; how we changed each other and how we tore ourselves apart. AU, Dark!fic. Fem!Liet, Fem!US, Poland. Will deal with BDSM, trans issues, addiction, abuse.


**Switch**

**Chapter One**

A couple of weeks ago, we decided to go out for dinner and drinks.

A beer over dinner turned into two, turned into Irish coffees over dessert, turned into another bar and martinis, turned into Long Islands, turned into yet another bar that I don't remember the name of and shots.

With a few more rounds in us, we sat around the table, laughing and talking about hopes, dreams for our futures. We're young, all of us, all with bright futures ahead, or so we hope. It's almost impossible to believe that we're young professionals now. Gainfully employed. Earning _salaries_. And yet it's easy to still feel lost, as if all those years of dutiful education amount to nothing in the face of all that's still left to be learned.

They've all figured out what they want out of life, already. I half paid attention to their answers; an evening of alcohol, strobe lights, and the loud, pounding music of bars was making my head spin, and I was preoccupied with wondering where the hell Amelia had wandered off to. Probably up at the bar, flirting with whatever randoms came her way, I thought, jealousy rearing its ugly head briefly, before I shook it away.

No. It wasn't like that. _We_ weren't like that. So what if she wanted to flirt with other people? She was perfectly free to; it wasn't like _I _had any hold on her.

But that didn't change me wanting to revel in the spotlight of her attention, for her very presence was illuminating, and she brought out the brightness in all of us. I wanted to be caught up in her gentle teasing, the banter that felt so natural that my awkward shyness fell by the wayside, forgotten. I wanted to feel her casual, playful touches, her leg pressing up against mine under the table, her fingers trailing briefly over the lines of my face in faux-drunken affection, her hand lingering on my arm far too long to be strictly platonic because she wanted to see who would notice.

But she wasn't here, and they were, so I concentrated on listening to the hopes and dreams of people whose names I could almost keep straight. A family, one of them said; to be someone people can rely on, answered another. To be recognized at work, a relationship, to travel the world.

What was it that I ultimately wanted? What was my dream for the future? Part of me knew, but I hesitated to say it aloud. I barely knew these people, after all.

I was saved from having to answer by Amelia arriving back at our table with a tray full of FIRE, the crowd parting almost reverently ahead of her as she passed through, looking for all the world like a goddess of old, bringing light down to mankind.

The illusion was broken as she plopped the flaming shots down in front of us, and Arthur exclaimed, "What the _fuck." _

The glasses jolted and the pillar of flame shuddered dangerously as she sat back down, rocking the table.

"C'mon, guys," she said, and blew on them, which only made the flames jump higher. A group effort managed to put them out, and each of us gingerly lifted a still-warm glass.

She raised a toast to our bright new future, and, together, we drank.

The next thing I remember, I was slumped over in the alleyway next to Amelia's apartment building, propped uncomfortably against the dumpster. Amelia was wrapped around my waist, half under me, half on top of me, a hand intermittently stroking my hair, as if she had to consciously think to do it and kept forgetting.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, and I managed to unsteadily stand up just in time to puke into the dumpster.

"That's good," Amelia murmured from the ground, comfortingly patting me on the calf, "Get it all out."

I'm not sure how much time passed, but next I was lying down on the ground again, and Maddie had appeared from lord only knows where, and she and Amelia were helping me up the stairs, and then I was lying with my head in the toilet bowl, my empty stomach still heaving.

Amelia knocked on the door. I coughed, trying to rid myself of the uncomfortable feeling that something was still stuck in my throat, but nothing more came up.

"Everything okay in there, Tori?" she asked, and I realized I hadn't actually answered her.

"I'm fine," I slurred drowsily, fatigue starting to set in alongside the persistent nausea and lingering burn in my throat, "Don't come in."

I wriggled out of my dress – it was getting uncomfortable, anyway – and bunched it up into something resembling a pillow. I was tired, and the bath mat was fuzzy and looked so inviting…

The next morning, I woke up in Amelia's bed, still in my underwear and fishnets, my ribs aching where those goddamned underwires had pressed in the wrong places, my head pounding and mouth dry.

I was spooning Amelia, who was wearing an old pair of boxers and nothing else. One of my hands rested on a sizeable tit.

Whatever. I relocated the hand to her waist, buried my face in her hair, and sighed, willing myself to fall asleep again – the bright morning light coming through the window was making me realize that my head _hurt_, and that the last thing I wanted was to move.

Amelia stirred, rolled over, pulled me tightly against her, kissed my cheek gently. Her eyes were sleepily half open, and she made a noise like _mmmh_ and closed them again.

I smiled to myself and kissed over her face, her forehead, the light freckles spread across her cheeks, and a gentle grin spread across her face. It was so different from how I was used to seeing her, loud, laughing, powerful. Dominating.

"You doin' okay?" she asked, shifting pillows around so that she could lie back and look down at me.

"Well, my head hurts, but that's my own fault," I shrugged.

She passed me a glass of water that had been sitting on the windowsill, which I took gratefully. She sipped at her own a little, before asking, "How much do you remember from last night?"

"I thought I fell asleep in the bathroom."

"You did. I was knocking, and you weren't answering, and I was getting real worried. Then you told me not to come in, and then you were quiet for a while longer, and then I heard _sobbing._ So I knocked again, and you told me not to worry, that it felt safe in there. You'd locked the door. I had to kick it in. Then you hid in the bathtub and kept saying it felt safe, and wouldn't let me help you to bed. But I didn't want you to sleep in the fucking _bathtub_, so I carried you in here."

"Oh." That was... not quite what I had been expecting, and pretty embarassing. I liked to think that I had my shit together better than that. "You could've just left me there, it wouldn't be the weirdest place I've slept," I said, trying to shrug it off.

"I can only imagine," she rolled her eyes and pinched my arm, eyes dancing with amusement as I whined and scooted away, "But when I got you in here, you started freaking out. You were crying, and you wouldn't let me touch you, and you kept saying, 'She's going to find me, she's going to find me and she's going to kill me.'"

She raised an eyebrow, asking me what the hell that was all about, but I didn't answer. I couldn't. The forgotten terror from the night before rose again, and I turned away from her and hid my face in a pillow.

"Who's 'she'? Is this the ex you told me about?"

I nodded, too frozen to do anything else.

She sighed. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, and I ain't judgin'. But you should talk to someone about it. Like, a professional. I mean, I'll listen if you want to talk, but this is way out of my depth and I'm not gonna try to fix you."

"I know. I know. I don't want you to."

"It's something you have to do by yourself. And probably with a psych or something, because it sounds like there's some really heavy shit going on."

"Yes," I said, "There is."

Later that week, I made some calls and had an appointment with a shrink and she told me to start writing things down, just to get them out of my head so I can hopefully stop re-living everything all the time.

So here we are. And here this is.

What do I want, more than anything? To live without fear.


End file.
